


A Good Man

by pettifogger



Series: Cover Me [5]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Begging, Competence Kink, Cunnilingus, Din Djarin Needs a Hug, Din Djarin is just a man with a 1996 Honda Civic and too many best friends, Din says the c-word (no not that one), Dirty Talk, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Non-Penetrative Sex, Oral Sex, Praise Kink, Reader Insert, Resolved Sexual Tension, Sharing a Bed, Shower Sex, Touch-Starved Din Djarin, reader - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-12
Updated: 2021-02-12
Packaged: 2021-03-12 04:20:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,622
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29379108
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pettifogger/pseuds/pettifogger
Summary: “You ready to walk across a swamp, sweet girl?” The Mandalorian says, his voice laden with dry amusement. “This was your idea.”Okay, so, scratch that about him being a good guy. He’s awful. He’s an awful man and you hate him.Except you don’t, actually, so you just give him a pleasant smile in response.“After you, shiny.”When the Mandalorian’s hunt turns out to be more complicated than anyone anticipated, you insist on helping. Imps, spies, shenanigans—he’ll be glad that he keeps you around.(or: Din and the reader share one (1) brain cell but they’re doing their best)Part 5 ofCover Me(can be read as a standalone):Part 1→Part 2→Part 3→Part 4→Part 5(you're here!)
Relationships: Din Djarin/Reader, Din Djarin/You, The Mandalorian (The Mandalorian TV)/You, The Mandalorian/Reader
Series: Cover Me [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2057175
Comments: 18
Kudos: 165





	A Good Man

_It wouldn’t be a good idea to give the kid caf, right?_

You look down at the child, who is presently sitting on the table in front of you and reaching for your mug, and gently push his hands away.

_No, definitely not._

“Not for you,” you scold. You pick the complimentary biscuit off your plate and offer that to him instead. “Cookie?”

He burbles happily and breaks it into pieces with his little three-fingered hands, eating it at an improbable speed for someone with such a tiny mouth. The café hums with life around you, the patrons sipping caf and spotchka and chattering loudly. At your booth tucked in the corner, the kid sits on the table and watches the buzz of the room. It’s a nice reprieve from the past few days. With the Mandalorian off on a hunt that he said could take at least five days, if not a week, you’ve been running around the Lothal capital city, stocking up on supplies, refueling the ship, and making sure the kid stays well-fed, well-rested, and away from caffeinated beverages.

He reaches for your mug again and you give him a look. 

“Kid,” you say, trying to sound stern, “if your dad finds out I gave you caf, he will _have my head._ Not to mention I don’t want to know what you’re capable of when caffeinated.”

The kid seems to get the message and drops his hands with a pouty face. He goes back to peering out at the crowded café with his big black eyes reflecting the warm glow of the lanterns overhead. You prop your chin up on your hand and join him.

There’s room enough under the table to stretch your legs out. It’ll be at least three more days before you can expect the Mandalorian back, and possibilities expand endlessly in front of you. Three days in one place? It’s almost unheard of, considering Mando’s typical schedule. 

You’re not jealous of the Mandalorian right now. He’s probably hanging around in the worst parts of the city right now, ranging far outside the core of the capital into the outlying swamps in search of his quarry while you and the kid sip caf and eat cookies in a cute café.

Poor Din. Well, at least he’ll have you waiting for him on the ship when he gets back. Your warm welcome always makes up for rough days on the hunt; he’s told you as much.

In the meantime, you have three free days to explore and every intention to make the best of them. Lothal is foreign to you, but surely there’s something to do. The capital is a _city_ , after all, a real one. Not Mos Eisley, pretending to be a city when it’s a glorified cluster of sand huts. No: the capital city has real streets and high-rise buildings, probably museums and stores, too, if you ever find the commercial district. You don’t have a lot of money to spend and you should probably do some more work on the _Crest_ , but you can spare some time to seek out amusement for yourself and the child.

Such as: people-watching in a café. It’s free, except for the caf, and endlessly entertaining. You watch a cluster of pink-skinned humanoids play cards a few booths over, the shortest of them dropping his forehead to the table when he realizes he’s lost, his lekku drooping sadly. A waitress flirts with a handsome Twi’lek at his table for one, who doesn’t seem interested. A Calamari family sits across the room, the parents doting on their three small, rowdy children.

You rub the kid’s ears absentmindedly. He starts making that funny growl-purr sound that he does when he’s content and scoots closer to you. 

In your head, you run through your recent purchases. The stack of crates and meager utensils that serve as the _Crest’s_ galley are restocked with nonperishable food. The ship is refueled. You took some busted weapons to a specialist, who fixed them better than you could with your limited knowledge of blaster mechanics. That’s—well, now that you think about it, that’s pretty much everything. That leaves the remaining days on this planet completely free.

“Three free days!” You poke the kid’s nose and he looks up at you. “Three days, kiddo. What do you want to get up to?” 

Before he can respond with a laugh or a _patu_ or some other nonsense sound, your wrist comm crackles to life. You frown down at it, nothing but static coming through the speakers. You fiddle with the buttons, but it doesn’t help.

Eventually, the sound quality starts to crystallize into something that sounds like words. Through static, you can hear the telltale brassy baritone of Din’s voice.

“Mando?” You lift the comm to your ear and you’re promptly greeted by an unpleasantly loud _thump_. Suddenly, the sound quality is perfect. Presumably, Din just whacked his comm on something and failed to warn you.

He says your name. He doesn’t sound worried, not exactly, although he does sound a bit disgruntled. 

“What’s going on?” On the table, the kid looks up at you with concern written all over his little green face. You stroke his ear and hope it’s reassuring.

It sounds like Din’s trying to talk, but there’s something _very_ noisy in the background rendering his voice incomprehensible.

“Mando, is that _crying?_ ” You strain to hear over the noise. “Is somebody crying near you?”

You try to imagine what he might’ve gotten up to in the days since you saw him last. The bounty sounded like a hard, rough-and-tumble kind of person: a Mirialan arms dealer with connections to the Lothal underworld. You can’t imagine it’s the bounty sobbing in the background of the call.

Heavy footsteps come through the comm and the sound fades, like Din has walked out of a room. His voice is finally clear as he says, “I’m going to be later than I said.”

“Are you okay?” 

“Yeah.” 

That’s Din for you, characteristically terse. 

“Who’s crying?”

“Quarry’s wife.”

“His _wife?_ ” That’s not typical on a hunt. As you’ve learned from Din, quarries normally hide alone. They get paranoid and run away from everything and everyone they know. They’re not usually with their _spouses_. “Is he there? The quarry?”

He grunts again, which sounds like a no. “This is,” he says, considering his words, “not great.” 

You’re a bit surprised Din is willing to talk work with you at all. Usually he tries to keep it separate from you and the kid; he says it’s safer that way. You also suspect he’s infected by some chivalrous notion of keeping violence away from women and children, which is ridiculous, considering you and the children both have a kill count. But you keep that to yourself.

“I thought this one was straightforward. Shady man goes missing, shady partners want to know where he went.”

Din sighs. “Imps.” 

“ _What?_ ”

You listen as Din explains, in as few words as he can, that the missing arms dealer was dealing arms to the Empire. The bounty, it turns out, was probably put out by the Empire through a middleman. The woman crying in the background is crying because any number of people might have it out for her husband: Imps, underground dealers, enemies of the Empire. Din didn’t know he took a puck from the Empire. Without him saying it, you know he’s conflicted: he doesn’t like doing their dirty work for them. 

You lean back in the booth and process Din’s explanation. 

“Alright,” you say, finally, planting your feet on the floor. “I’m coming to you.”

“What—”

“I’m coming to you,” you repeat, starting to gather your things. “Where are you?”

Din says your name again, but you can’t tell if it’s in frustration or concern. “I’m hunting,” he starts, and you recognize his tone as the same one he uses to scold the kid. “You can’t—”

“I’m _aware_.” You roll your eyes, even though he can’t see it. “But this is different. I know not to mess with your work, but this is bigger than that.” 

Your comm goes silent. Hopefully, he’s considering his response carefully. 

After a long moment passes, you sigh. “Let me help you. Just send me the coordinates. I’m going to find you whether you like it or not.” You resume gathering your few possessions, including placing the kid in his little sling you wear across your front. “If nothing else, I can help with the wife. Your bedside manner is fucking awful.” 

Din snorts and you start to wonder if he’s actually going to hang up on you. After a moment, your comm pings. The tiny holoprojector hums to life, spitting out coordinates illuminated in blue. 

“Got it. I’ll be there.”

The press of a button, and the call is over. The kid twitches an ear at you, tilting his head curiously. You twist your mouth into a frown.

“Sorry, kiddo, playtime has to wait. Your dad needs us.” 

☆

The kid stays quiet as you weave your way through the winding streets. You’re grateful for it; the coordinates lead you to a rough-and-tumble section of town, and the last thing you need is the child calling attention to you with his noises, cute as they are. 

After an hour or so ducking through back alleys and double-checking the coordinates, you arrive outside a block of rickety houses. Above you, the upper stories of the houses lean forward into the street, as if they’re trying to whisper secrets to each other. It looks like a strong wind or a firm push would take the whole block down. You stop outside the one indicated by your directions and peer into the front window. 

The window is obscured by a curtain, but you can see warm orange light spilling out of a small room in the back, where a woman with a cloud of dark hair sits at a table. Her forehead rests on her hands, the picture of exhaustion. This has to be the right house. You draw away from the window, adjusting your jacket and making sure the kid is secure in his sling. Only when he’s content and you’re presentable do you rap on the door with your knuckles.

Inside, there’s the faint murmur of conversation, followed by the sound of footsteps approaching. The door swings open and you’re greeted by a wall of metal, right at eye level.

“Hi,” you say, and look up.

The Mandalorian looks down at you through his visor. The child seems to sense his presence, burbling happily from inside the sling. 

“Is that the woman?” You look over Din’s shoulder in the direction of the woman, still sitting at the small table. “The quarry’s wife?” 

Din nods. 

“Can I come in?”

He steps out of your way. You walk past him towards the woman, stopping a few steps away.

She looks up at you. She’s quite beautiful, with deep brown skin and high cheekbones, though she looks exhausted. Half-dried tears glint on her cheeks and she wipes them away hastily. 

Sympathy twists in your stomach. You force a smile on your face and introduce yourself. 

Surprisingly, she smiles back. “It’s nice to meet you,” she says. “My name is Sora.” Before you can return the compliment, the sound of rustling fabric interrupts you. A little girl with green skin and a puff of curly, dark hair emerges through a curtained doorway.

“Jessa, no,” Sora scolds, though her tone is more tired than stern. “You can keep playing, but you have to stay in the bedroom.”

The little girl—Jessa, apparently—looks up at Sora with huge eyes. _Oh, Maker,_ you think, realizing she’s about to cry. Jessa starts to sniffle and her mother sighs.

At the sound of a child crying, two big ears pop up out of the sling around you. The child peeks out of his hiding spot, curious at the noise. He sees the girl and tilts his head. She tilts her head back. Then he starts to wriggle around, like he’s trying to escape the sling.

You look at Din. Din looks at Sora. Sora shrugs. 

Kneeling down, you rest the sling on the floor. The kid frees himself of the fabric and promptly toddles across the room to Jessa. Wide-eyed curiosity spreads across her face, and she bends down to look at the kid when he approaches. She’s a good bit taller than him, even though she can’t be more than four and he’s fifty. 

“Hi,” she says.

He giggles. Then, to your amazement, he reaches into the pocket of his little robe and procures part of the cookie you gave him at the café earlier. You didn’t realize he saved some of it. Look at him, learning foresight. With his hands cupped together, he offers the cookie to Jessa. 

_Patu_ , he says, by way of explanation.

You watch, fascinated, as Jessa takes the cookie from him. She rubs away her tears with her free hand and—to your relief—smiles. Then she splits the cookie in two and hands half back to the child with a grin. The kid giggles and they both flop on the floor, eating their respective halves of the cookie and laughing at each other, tears long gone.

You, Din, and Sora stand there for a long moment, watching the kids. Now that you think about it, you’ve never seen the child interact with someone who wasn’t an adult. He holds his own against criminals and villains, but you’ve never seen him around another kid. Is that _pride_ you feel blossoming in your chest when you see him share his food with this little girl? You glance over at Din, and you wonder if he’s feeling the same thing. 

Sora breaks the silence. She gestures for you to join her at the table, and Din draws up chairs for both of you to sit. While the children babble away on the floor, Sora explains who her husband is and how he came to disappear.

☆

Tam is from outside the city, a Mirialan from a community in the outlying swamp districts. His sister and brother-in-law still live in their village, but Tam didn’t want to stay in a tiny town forever. He moved to the city as a young man and became a blaster repairman. He met Sora when she was working as a tailor in the commercial part of town, and she liked him, even if he always smelled like the acrid odor of blaster residue and grease. Their friendly interactions naturally morphed into something more, and it wasn’t long before they married. 

Sora smiles ruefully as she says that, and you can tell memories are flashing behind her eyes like a holo. It’s sweet, but there’s sadness there too.

Sora keeps talking. Apparently, some of Tam’s customers started to mention arms dealing to him, but Sora didn’t want him to get involved; it was too dangerous, she thought, and they were doing just fine on their own.

Then Jessa came into the picture. Sora still didn’t feel good about Tam selling weapons, but with a baby on the way, they needed money. Tam got into the business, and, inevitably on Lothal, Imperial clients came knocking. Sora liked that even less, but it paid for their house and everything they needed for their daughter, so she kept her hatred for the Empire to herself. At least, she told herself, Tam didn’t like them much either. 

It was all good for the first few years. Sora kept working as a tailor, bringing pieces home to sew while tending to Jessa, and Tam would come home with plenty of credits for the three of them. Six or seven months ago, though, something was off.

Sora’s eyes go distant as she remembers it: Tam coming home later and later, getting cagey when she started asking questions. When you raise an eyebrow, Sora scoffs; it never crossed her mind that Tam might have strayed. He wasn’t— _isn’t_ —that kind of man, Sora insists. He’s good and loyal. He wouldn’t just abandon his wife and daughter. He acted oddly for several months, working later hours and getting more paranoid. He started talking about traveling out of the city, possibly for weeks at a time, and bringing Sora and Jessa along. He said they could travel into the countryside; he said it would be good for their daughter to see nature, not just high-rise buildings and city streets.

But before he could make plans, one day he just—disappeared. He didn’t come home from work and Sora stayed up all night waiting, until the sun rose the next morning. She asked around, even tracking down the shadiest of his partners, but no one would tell her anything. They acted like he was a ghost, like he might never have existed in the first place.

It’s been more than three months since he left. Sora has kept working, making just enough to buy food and keep the lights on, but their savings are running out and she’s tired. She’s a proud woman, she says, always able to make her own way in the world. She doesn’t like to rely on others. She’s independent, even when it comes to her marriage. Hence her efforts to track down her husband on her own. 

You hear her pride start to crack as she speaks. When she looks between you and Din, you see the desperation in her eyes. 

“You have to help me,” she says, and you can hear it in her voice. “ _Please_.” 

☆

“It’s time to leave.” The Mandalorian’s voice is quiet in the space between you. 

Your train of thought, which was racing through plans of how to canvass an entire city for one man, screeches to a halt. You look up at him, his helmet illuminated by the light through the curtain. In the adjacent room, Sora sits at the table and watches the kids play on the floor. Here, you and Din stand in the bedroom for what you _thought_ was going to be a discussion of strategy. Now, though, you think it might turn into a fight. 

“What?” 

“It’s time to leave,” he repeats, and starts to turn like he’s going to walk out. “We’re not getting involved in this.”

“Wait.” Your hand flashes out, grabbing his arm just under his pauldron. He glares down at your hand, but you won’t be deterred. You drag him further into the room—or try to, he’s _heavy_ —and keep your voice low so Sora doesn’t hear.

“What do you mean?” 

“She can’t pay.”

“Of _course_ she can’t pay,” you hiss. You gesture around the bedroom, as if that explains the situation. It’s a tiny room fitted only with a chair and a small bed, dressed with a threadbare blanket and pillows for two people. Sora and her child are sharing a tiny house and a single bed until money runs out. Of _course_ she can’t pay. 

“So that means we’re not going to help her?”

The Mandalorian shrugs. “I don’t get involved with Imps for free.”

Your glare could cut durasteel—though not, apparently, beskar. Din turns again but you’re faster, stepping into the doorway and physically blocking him from leaving. You plant your feet in the doorframe and cross your arms over your chest. Two can play the stubborn game. 

“Din,” you whisper, risking his name in the company of others. You need him to know you’re serious. “You are not walking out of this kriffing house.” 

“Bounty hunter, remember?” His voice is laden with sarcasm. “You knew what I am when you chose to come with me.” 

You could shout with frustration, but for the sake of Sora and the kids, you won’t. Yes, you know he’s a bounty hunter; yes, you know he doesn’t work for free. But you also know he adopted one of his bounties when he got attached and helps people in need on a _regular basis._ He’s got a heart somewhere under all that beskar, but sometimes he needs a reminder that it works. 

“Fine.” You square your shoulders. “You can leave, but I’m staying.” 

He says your name, half a sigh, sounding utterly exasperated. 

“They need help, Mando. I can help them. Did you see that little girl?” You both turn to look behind you at the kitchen, where Jessa has found some of her toys and is showing them to the child. He looks at the toys with utter fascination in his big black eyes. “She’s starving, and she still gave your son half of her food. They’re good people and I can help them. I’m not leaving.” 

What you don’t mention is the familiarity of this situation. The girl’s sunken-eyed look, the way her belly sticks out with hunger—it sparks an old memory in you, and despite being well-fed and happy now, you feel the ghost of hunger clawing at your stomach. You know that look, that feeling. You know hunger and helplessness when you see it. And you know Din does, too, no matter how stoic and unmovable he tries to be. 

The two of you stand there for a second, the picture of stubbornness. Your arms crossed over your chest; the Mandalorian glaring down at you through that impassive helmet. An unstoppable force meets an unmovable object. 

Finally, the unmovable object relents. Din sighs. 

“Fine.” 

“Fuck,” you sigh, letting out a long breath. Relief washes over you at his assent. “I thought you were going to walk out on me.”

His gloved hand clenches at his side like he wants to reach for you and thinks better of it. When he speaks, his voice is thick through the modulator. “I wouldn’t.”

“I know.” 

He does reach for you, then, an awkward reach for your hand that ends up with him holding your wrist. “I _wouldn’t_ ,” he repeats, squeezing your wrist to make his point. 

His conviction surprises you. It hits at some deep need inside you; you don’t realize how much you need him to reassure you of your standing in his life until he says it, oblique as reassurance is. You nod, unsure what to say, needing him to know that you understand. 

A moment passes in raw, painfully earnest silence. Then he drops your wrist and you rub your temples, as if that will help clear your head at all. 

“Okay,” you sigh, “what’s our plan?” 

☆

Okay, canvassing a city for this guy _sucks_. You had righteous intentions for this mission, but now you’re tired, dirty, and frustrated. _And_ it’s getting dark. Who knows where the Mandalorian is or if he’s doing any better than you right now; he headed to the upscale districts earlier, not wanting to tangle with any Imps that might be hanging around the ramshackle side of town. He was weirdly quiet when he left, moreso than usual, and you remind yourself to ask if he’s okay when he gets back.

Speaking of which, you’re supposed to meet him back at Sora’s in—you check your watch—less than an hour. _Fuck_. You really don’t want to show up empty-handed. You don’t want to see the look of barely-concealed disappointment on Sora’s face when you say you didn’t learn anything of use.

It’s not entirely your fault. Whatever Tam was involved in was a _mess_. Just the mention of his name makes people clam up. You started going door-to-door from Sora’s, asking the neighbors if they know anything about his whereabouts, and you quickly lost track of the number of doors slammed in your face.

Your calf is threatening to cramp up from walking up and down hilly streets for hours and you’re exhausted, mentally and physically. Up ahead, there’s an alley between two buildings; you duck in for space to breathe. Or to cry with frustration. You haven’t decided. 

The stone wall is rough on your back as you lean up against it. Over your head, darkness creeps across the sky, the clear blue sky giving way to the stunning colors of a sunset and then navy blue dotted with stars. You stand there staring up at the sky for longer than you’d care to admit. 

Finally, when the sun is almost fully down, you rub your eyes. You shake your exhaustion and push yourself off the wall.

_I’ve got this,_ you tell yourself. _I can do this. I_ have _to do this._

Your motivational speech is rudely interrupted by a wall of _something_ as you step out the alley. Practically bouncing off it, you look up at whatever or whoever you just collided with. 

A mean-looking, purple-skinned humanoid looks down at you. His face is crisscrossed with scars, including one slicing his right eyebrow clean in half. Not someone you want to tangle with.

“Sorry,” you mutter, pushing past. “Didn’t see you there. Gotta go. So sorry about that— _hey!”_

The man puts one giant hand on your shoulder and shoves you back against the wall. You slam against the rough surface, a bit of stone sticking painfully into your shoulder blade. You glare up at the guy. A bit of an overreaction for an accidental collision, isn’t it?

You keep that thought to yourself.

“I _said_ sorry,” is what comes out of your mouth instead. Not much better.

“You’ve been asking around about Tam?” 

_Well, fuck._ You stick your chin out, defiant to a fault. “And what if I am?”

The man snarls. “We don’t like outsiders asking questions around here.” 

What’s the appropriate response to that? _Sorry?_ You can’t think of one, so you stay silent.

“Back off, kid.” He crosses his big purple arms across his chest. He steps back and drops his hand, as if giving you room to scurry off, his point made. 

You’ll do nothing of the sort. You bristle at _kid_ —you’re not a kid, thank you very much. 

“And what if I told you I’m with the Guild?” You say it before you can think about it. A white lie, but you are with the Guild. Sort of. “And there’s a bounty out on your _friend_ Tam?”

The man looks you up and down. You don’t blame him. Very little about you says _bounty hunter_. Your scruffy clothes and bad attitude says _scavenger_ more than it says _mercenary_. 

“Still tell you to back off,” he grunts. “He was involved in shit you don’t want to mess with.”

“Even for credits?”

“Bounty hunter,” he, clearly not believing your lie. 

Okay, so that’s out. You change tacks. “So, you know Tam? Or— _knew_ him?” 

“Thought I said I don’t like outsiders asking questions.” 

“But you _do_ know him."

“What I know,” the man says, shoving his way back in your personal space, “is that Tam is no-good swamp rat trash. Tell _that_ to your Guild friends, _kid_.”

He shoves your shoulder once more for good measure and stalks off, giving you one last glare over his shoulder. You rub your shoulder, where the rough stone has been stabbing you for the last five minutes. That was—well, extremely weird, that’s what it was. All things considered, it could’ve gone a lot worse. And it was useful, kind of. You know that Tam’s shady dealings were known throughout the neighborhood. You know that he is—what did that guy say?—“no-good swamp rat trash”? That’s probably useful, somehow. You won’t repeat that to Sora, but the Mandalorian might be able to make some use of it.

You stumble out of the alleyway. You didn’t sign up to get shoved around by jerks twice your size, and you think that’s reason enough to call it a day.

☆

It’s late in the night when you finally get a chance to talk to Din about what you learned—and complain about getting manhandled by purple-skinned nerf herders. You returned to Sora’s to find that she had cooked dinner for all of you, which was lovely, but made you feel awful for imposing on her. Despite your protests that you can go back to the ship and eat, Sora insisted on the Mandalorian, the child, and you staying for dinner. And then, after it got dark and the streets got dangerous, she insisted on the three of you staying the night rather than finding your way back to the _Crest_. 

In the quiet darkness of Sora’s house, you sit at the kitchen table, the Mandalorian leaning against the wall nearby. Sora and Jessa are asleep in the adjacent room, the child too; it’s just the two of you awake, trying to keep your voices down as you speculate about the fate of this kind woman’s husband.

Also, judging by the single bedroll on the floor, Sora’s done some speculating of her own. You told her you were just Mando’s mechanic, but clearly she saw right through that. You feel heat creep up the back of your neck when you start wondering what Sora thought when she saw you with the Mandalorian. What you are to him, what he is to you; you don’t even know how you’d explain it, if you had to. The idea that the connection between you is apparent to strangers makes you burn from the inside out. 

You sigh quietly and stretch your legs out in front of you. Looking at Din in the darkness, it’s hard to make out his form; mostly, all you see lights from outside glinting off his armor. 

“Did you find anything useful?” 

“No,” Din grunts. “Nothing we didn’t know already. He was tangled up in a lot. Anyone could’ve taken him out.”

You sigh again, sinking further down into the chair. “We don’t know that someone ‘took him out,’” you point out. “All we know is that he’s missing.”

“Did you hear anything to suggest different?”

You hate to admit it, but Din’s right. With shady partners, the Empire, and enemies of the Empire possibly on his tail—he’s probably dead. But you can’t let yourself think that, not after seeing the hope in Sora and Jessa’s eyes when you said you would help. Suddenly, the memory of what the man in the alley said pops into your head.

“Actually, yes.” You sit forward in your chair and rub your temples, as if you can make the memory clearer. “When I got hassled by that purple-skinned asshole—”

“When you _what?”_

“—he said he knows Tam,” you continue. “And he talked about him in the present tense.”

You ignore the way that Din shifts his position when you said you were hassled; you also ignore the way he looks you up and down, checking for injuries. If you let yourself think about the fact that he gets protective over you, you’ll get distracted very quickly. 

“Right, I remember what he said. He said, and I quote, ‘is that Tam is no-good swamp rat trash.’ _Is_. Not was.” 

Din doesn’t say anything. His silence is damning; you know it’s thin evidence. Your desire to help these people, to play the hero, is making you delusional. _Is_ instead of _was_? That’s splitting grammatical hairs. That’s not proof that the bounty is still alive.

You sigh, about to give up, but Din stands up suddenly. He starts to pace across the small room, his footsteps sound too loud in the quiet night. 

“What?” You watch lights slide across his armor as he moves.

“‘Swamp rat,’” he quotes. Like that means something.

“What?”

“You said the man called him a swamp rat.”

“Yeah.”

“What did Sora say about Tam’s family?”

It’s vaguely surprising that Din was actually paying attention to Sora’s heartfelt tale. You try to remember back. “She said they’re from the swamp districts,” you recall, “and that his sister and brother-in-law still live there. She said Tam used to talk about taking her and Jessa there before he disappeared.”

Din crosses the room to you, putting his hands down on the table and leaning in to face you. You forget how absurdly intimidating he is until that helmet is staring you down from less than a foot away.

“Hey—” 

He says your name lowly, which stops you in your tracks. 

“The swamps,” he says. “That’s where he’s hiding.”

The swamps. Of _course_. Considering the evidence, all signs point in that direction. You look up at Din. “How do you know for sure?”

“Hunter’s instincts.”

That’s good enough for you. Relief washes over you as you lean back in your chair; tomorrow morning you can tell Sora that there’s still hope, that you have a plan, that today wasn’t a complete waste. You can’t see his face, but you think you can sense the same feeling of relief in Din. As much as he tries to play the heartless mercenary, you know he cares. You saw the way his gaze lingered on the kids playing on the floor, the determination with which he took up this task as soon as he committed himself to it. 

“Okay,” you say, standing up. “Sounds good. The swamps it is.”

You stretch your arms over your head and then crouch down, starting to unlace your boots. “And if we’re going trekking across the swamps of Lothal tomorrow, I would like to actually get some sleep tonight.” 

You keep getting undressed, stripping off your boots and jacket, taking off as much as you feel comfortable with while sleeping in a stranger’s house. Din just stands there. 

“Are you…” you gesture at his armor. “I mean, I know we’re not home, but you can…”

_Did you just say home?_

“...you can, y’know.”

He keeps standing there, probably blushing under that helmet. Oh, for the love of—do you have to do this _every_ time? You take a step towards him and reach for the fastenings of his pauldron, unstrapping it slowly, looking up at him through your eyelashes. You don’t miss the way his breath hitches.

“If we’re going to share a bedroll meant for one, I am not going to spend all night getting stabbed by beskar.”

“ _Oh_.” 

_There_ it is. 

Din sounds like he’s been hit upside the head. Amazing, how that brain of his can go so fast when tracking a bounty and so slow when a pretty girl asks him to sleep with her. 

As soon as his armor is off, you pull him down to the ground with you. The bedroll isn’t terribly soft, and you’re certain he’s not particularly comfortable sleeping with the helmet on, but you’re not going to complain about Sora’s hospitality. And you get to be together, alone-ish. That’s worth something. You’re not so sure if Din agrees. 

He’s seemed off all day. You don’t know why, but he’s quieter than usual, less forthcoming with explanations and even with dry comments. You’re used to him being reticent in public: he’s not one to do things like holding your hand or putting his arm around you for confiding in you in public. But like this, just the two of you? Usually he lets his guard down. 

Should you be concerned that he isn’t? You’re not sure. 

Curled against his side, you press your face to his shirt and feel the warmth of him radiate into your cheek. You can hear his heartbeat in his chest, his breath slowing down. 

Glancing up at the helmet, you wish you could be alone with him— _truly_ alone, not on the floor of someone else’s house—and ask what’s wrong. You’re not prying; you just care about him and you know him well enough to tell when something is off. Finally, after several long minutes of thinking too hard, you figure out what to say. You prop your chin up on his shoulder and open your mouth to speak.

At the exact same moment, he snores. 

Through the helmet. 

It’s so sudden and such an amusing sound that you have to stifle a laugh. Okay, whatever conversation you wanted to have can wait. You’ll let Din sleep. Talking can wait for the morning. 

☆

Lothal is so _green_. It’s not the first time you’ve seen a forested planet; you’ve spent time on Takodana and Sorgan, among other tropical planets. But this— _stars_ , it’s stunning. As the _Crest_ flies low over the swamps, you find yourself pressing your nose to the viewport and staring out at the landscape like you’ve never seen a plant before in your life. There’s just so many shades of green and brown, trees and grasses and marsh plants you don’t even have a name for. 

At your exhalation of “ _wow_ ,” you hear a soft laugh from behind you. You consider glaring at Mando for laughing at you, but it was a rather _affectionate_ kind of laugh, so you let it slide.

He’s better this morning. You haven’t gotten a chance to talk to him about anything but the mission since last night, but the fact that he’s in the mood to laugh at your wide-eyed amazement—at _swamps,_ of all things—tells you he’s feeling alright. 

Din pilots the _Crest_ expertly, bringing her just close enough to see the ground but staying far enough away to keep from disturbing the plants and animals below. You keep your eyes trained on the earth, looking for telltale signs of a village: unnatural cuts in the grass, the brown dots of huts, irrigation trenches, things like that. 

You’ve been in the air for something like two hours. Sora and Jessa are back in the city, still watching the child. The Mandalorian had promised to return at nightfall if you didn’t find anything; you suspect that he doesn’t want to impose the rambunctious kid on good people for any longer than necessary.

_See?_ You think to yourself. _Considerate. There’s a heart under all that armor._

Then you spot it, a cluster of brown circles near a distant treeline. “There!” you exclaim. That’s a village, for sure. It’s far away, but you can make out the shape of huts and the geometric pattern of irrigation ditches in the marsh grass. 

“Got it.” Din flips a switch over his head and the _Crest_ banks sharply. “Strap in for landing.”

You do as he says, knowing better than to question your captain, but you frown. “Here?”

“Villagers might scatter if they see us,” Din explains, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “Don’t want them running.”

You listen vaguely to his explanation—which makes sense—and pretend you’re not staring at the way he handles the _Crest_ with expert confidence. You’re trying to pay attention to what he’s saying, you really are, but he’s just so _striking_ like this. He makes flying a spaceship look so _easy_. 

You’re on a mission, you remind yourself, one you convinced him to take on. Don’t get distracted. Even if he does look _really_ good when he’s in charge. 

He looks back at you and you shrink into your seat a little bit. You glance to the side, hoping your expression doesn’t give you away. Are you still slightly miffed that you slept beside him last night and couldn’t do anything but nestle into his arms? Yes, possibly. Are you kind of bizarrely, irrationally jealous of the _Crest_ because of the way Din talks to her when he’s sticking a tricky landing? Also yes. Come on, he calls her _baby_. 

He doesn’t even call _you_ baby. 

He does call you _sweet girl,_ though, and that’s better than baby. Especially when he murmurs it in your ear when he’s trying to rile you up or when he’s already half-gone in pleasure, lost in the feeling of you. Then it sounds _really_ good. 

_Stars above_ , you think, pinching the bridge of your nose, _it really would’ve been nice to do more than sleep beside him last night_ . Apparently, you’re so pent-up and frustrated that your brain has decided to shut down all higher functions. Even as the _Crest_ comes to a gentle rest in a dry patch of ground, you’ve still got your eyes glued to the back of Din’s helmet. He flicks switches and checks meters while the easily-distracted, base-instinct part of you brain says dumb things like _handle me like you handle this ship_. 

Mercifully, you’re able to keep that thought to yourself. 

Then Din turns and catches you looking _again_ , which makes heat flare up the back of your neck. 

“You ready to walk across a swamp, sweet girl?” Din says, his voice laden with dry amusement. “This was your idea.” 

Okay, so, scratch that about Din being attractive. Strike out everything about him being a good guy. He’s awful. He’s an awful man and you hate him.

Except you don’t, actually, so you just give him a pleasant smile in response.

“After you, shiny.” 

☆

So much for the villagers not scattering. As soon as you pass through the treeline and into the clearing of the town, sun glints off the Mandalorian’s armor like a homing beacon. You consider yourself a rather unthreatening person, but not even your attempt at a friendly wave can keep the villagers from bolting at the sight of a Mandalorian emerging from the trees. In a matter of moments, every person in sight disappears into huts or barns or simply into thin air. 

“ _Dank farrik,_ ” Din curses from behind you. You can’t blame him for his frustration. After all, you did trek through two miles of marsh to avoid this exact occurrence. 

You squint at the village, the low sunlight shining bright in your eyes. It’s not a large village, really just a cluster of huts, and it looked to you that everyone here is Mirialan—just as Sora said it would be. It’s quite beautiful, actually; thatched-roof cottages in shades of brown and green, flourishing gardens outside each house, some wires and metal lying about that suggests this is not just a rural outpost. You’re definitely in the right place, but how will you get anyone to talk to you?

The Mandalorian starts forward but you put your arm across his chest. Of the two of you, you should take the lead; you’re far more friendly-looking than him. You walk forward into the clearing, Din in tow. 

After a few hesitant steps forward, you see that the village isn’t _completely_ abandoned. Several pairs of eyes peek out at you from inside the small houses, and— _bingo_ —one woman is left outside. She crouches by an irrigation trench, a shovel buried in the dirt next to her like she was working when you interrupted her. 

Giving the Mandalorian a look that you hope says _stay here_ , you walk towards the woman, keeping your empty hands in sight. She grabs for her shovel and you shake your head, frantic; you’d rather not have this mission end with your skull getting bashed in with a gardening tool. 

“Hi,” you say. “I’m not here to cause trouble, I promise. I’m just looking for someone who lives here.”

The woman stays silent, her gaze sliding between you and the Mandalorian. Okay, admittedly, this does look bad. There’s probably no village in the world that would be thrilled to see a Mandalorian show up unannounced.

“He’s with me,” you say. _Ooh_ , that’s fun. Usually it’s the other way around; it’s kind of fun to say _he’s_ with _me._ “He’s not going to hurt anybody either. We’re friends of Nomi.”

Nomi—Tam’s sister. You’ve never met her, obviously, but a white lie can’t hurt, right? Not when it’s for the greater good. 

At the mention of a familiar name, the tension melts from the woman’s shoulders. She shifts from a protective crouch to a sitting position, swinging her legs over into the irrigation ditch. She invites you to sit next to her, patting the ground lightly. 

The Mandalorian, it seems, is not invited. As you walk over, she gives him a wary glare. He sighs just loud enough for him to hear and assumes that hand-on-his-hip stance he does when he gets an attitude. You hate to admit it, but you like it. He’s kind of funny when he’s irritated, as long as it’s not with you.

“So,” the woman says, finally, “how do you know Nomi?” 

You explain the entire situation, leaving out the part where Din is a bounty hunter with a puck for Tam. Instead, you focus on what you care about: Tam’s wife and daughter alone in the city, the suspicion of the neighbors when you asked about his whereabouts, Sora’s hope against hope that her husband might be found alive. The woman nods as you talk, looking between your face and the slow-moving water of the ditch. 

When the woman agrees to show you to Nomi’s house, you have to stifle a whoop of victory. Finally you’re getting somewhere. She leads you and the Mandalorian—albeit with a wary glare at the latter—across the village.

☆

Nomi, it turns out, looks exactly like her brother. Sora showed you pictures of Tam, and you see the resemblance as soon as the door swings open. Tall, with emerald-green skin marked with diamond patterns and intelligent eyes—this is Tam’s sister, for sure.

You’re actually so taken aback by the beautiful Mirialan woman in front of you that you miss the two men with a baby trying to flee out the back. The Mandalorian doesn’t. He jumps into fighting mode, shoving past the both of you into the room, grabbing one of the men before he can even think to move. 

Once again, you have to fight down the heat that gathers at the pit of your stomach at the sight of Din doing what he does best. Stars above, last night really _was_ a tease, wasn’t it? You remind yourself not to sleep next to the Mandalorian unless you can do more than cuddle, or else you’ll be utterly useless for twenty-four hours. Like you are now.

You stand, dumbly, as the Mandalorian hauls the two men back into the main room of the cottage. One of them, you realize, is holding a bundle of cloth—kriff, is that a _baby?_ His arms shift and you see a tiny green face in the blankets. 

Looking at the two men, it’s clear which one is Tam. He looks just like the photo in Sora’s bedroom: the same emerald skin, the same geometric patterns on his face and down his arms. What’s not familiar is the look of abject terror on his face.

“Mando, let them go.”

The Mandalorian turns his head to face you and you know he’s giving you a look under his visor. 

“Let them go,” you repeat. Then you turn to the men. “We’re not going to hurt you. Sora sent us.”

“Sora sent _him?”_ Tam croaks, glaring at the Mandalorian, who currently has his hand on the scruff of Tam’s neck. 

“Well, yes. Sort of. Well, the Guild sent him, but then Sora sent him, and—” 

“Yeah.” Din cuts off your nervous ramble. “She sent us. Your wife and daughter are starving. What are you doing hiding in a swamp?”

Tam looks furious at the implication that he’s hiding. “If I tell you, will you let go of me?” When Din agrees, Tam sulks over to the table and sits down heavily. He rubs the back of his neck and glares at Din as the other Mirialan joins him at the table.

“Had to make sure you wouldn’t run,” Din explains.

“Of course,” Tam replies, drily. 

For as much trouble as he’s caused, you kind of like this guy. If nothing else, he’s as sarcastic as you and the Mandalorian, and that counts for something. 

The woman settles down at the table next to the other man—her husband, you assume, Tam’s brother-in-law—and gestures for the two of you to sit. You take a seat at the table and look at Tam. Sitting here, alive, apparently uninjured, miles and miles away from his family. 

The Mandalorian was right to question him. An explanation is in order. 

☆

“Let me get this straight,” Din says, sounding confused. “This entire village is a resistance cell?”

You have questions of your own. “And Tam hasn’t really been working for the Empire? He’s been working for the resistance this whole time?” 

Tam nods, as does his sister and her husband.

Another question comes to mind. “Does Sora know?”

“No.” A look of regret passes across Tam’s face. His gaze falls down to the table. “It was too dangerous to tell her. If the Empire came knocking— _when_ the Empire came knocking…” he says, giving the Mandalorian a look, “...I didn’t want her to seem like she was involved in it. Because she wasn’t. The double-dealing, selling arms to capture intel, passing info along to the resistance—that was all me.” 

“So why did you run?” 

Tam looks at the Mandalorian at the sound of his question. Din doesn’t sound judgmental; he just sounds curious. Tam regards him with a look that isn’t wariness or irritation for the first time in the last half hour. 

“I heard I’d been made. One of my partners warned me. Said the Imps were onto me and that I had to run.”

“What about your wife? Your daughter?” You blurt out. You think about the weariness in Sora’s gaze as she recalls the hours and days she spent walking every mile of the city, trying to find him.

“Couldn’t risk it,” Tam explains. “If the Imps found them with me, they’d consider them accomplices. They don’t care about women and children when it comes to destroying their enemies.”

You have to admit, it makes sense. Stars, this really _is_ a mess. You look over at the Mandalorian, who’s sitting back in his chair, one hand on the table, fingers tapping. Thinking. It’s going to require a lot of thinking to get out of this. The capital city is crawling with Imps, so there’s no way Tam can go back. But Sora and Jessa can’t be left in the dark or separated from Tam. The obvious answer, it seems, is to bring them here. Sure, it’ll be a bit suspicious for the _Crest_ to make such frequent trips to and from the city, but surely you can come up with a reason. Or just hope for the best and avoid getting caught.

Everyone around the table seems to be thinking just as hard, probably having the same thoughts as you. You’re about to propose your solution when a loud _thump_ interrupts your thoughts. 

Everyone jumps.

_Thump, thump, thump_. It sounds like someone’s outside and they can’t decide if they want to knock on the door or break it down. You exchange a nervous look with the Mandalorian. He stands up from the table and approaches the door slowly. When you look at Tam, he shrugs; clearly, he isn’t expecting company. His sister holds her infant son closer to her chest. 

The Mandalorian doesn’t go for the door; instead, he pulls aside the curtain over the front window, just enough to see outside. Suddenly, his hand flies to his blaster. 

_Dank farrik_.

His helmet whips around to you and he gestures feverishly to the back door. _Fuck_. _Fuck_ , _who’s outside? Did someone follow you?_ _Fuck_. You don’t have time to be asking questions.

“We need to go,” you hiss. 

The back door is just feet away. Surely, the three of them can get out before Din opens the front door. You usher Tam and his family to the back of the house; if you can get them out and to safety, it’ll be fine. You and Din can talk your way out of anything. As long as Tam is safe, he can get home to Sora, and it’s _fine—_

The front door slams open so hard the wood cracks. Standing in the doorway is an Imperial officer; he bears the Empire’s symbol on his jacket and that ridiculous hat on his head. _No,_ you think, _no, no_. How could the Empire have sent one of their own _already?_ The Mandalorian has barely had the puck for a week; they should’ve given him more time. Unless—unless they’re here for him. Unless they tracked the _Crest_. There’s no way to know who they’re here for, Tam or Din or all of you.

“What on _earth_ ,” the Imp says, looking over the five of you, “is all this?”

Admittedly, it does look bad. There’s a Mandalorian standing by the doorway, hand hovering near his blaster; an armed, angry-looking human girl (you) a few feet away; and three Mirialan adults plus an infant child halfway out the back door. It looks _really_ bad, when you think about it from the Imp’s perspective.

The officer turns to the Mandalorian as if he were the only adult in the room and directs the question to him. You wait for the clever response from Din. You wait for his suave explanation of what’s going on; some perfectly-crafted lie, his so-called _hunter’s instinct_ kicking in. Tam and his family wait, too, frozen by the back door. 

An excruciatingly long second passes in complete silence. You stare at the Mandalorian, gaze threatening to bore a hole in his helmet. Why isn’t he talking? With every passing second, the Imp grows more impatient; a tiny muscle under his eye starts twitching. _Fuck_. 

Nomi is the first to break. From behind you, she grabs your wrist. You whip your head around and she nods in the direction of the Mandalorian.

“You’re his bounty,” she whispers, her fingers digging into your skin.

“ _What?_ ” 

“You’re his bounty,” she repeats, with incredible certainty.

_Oh_. 

Realization jolts through you. You nod and she lets go of your wrist. You’re both on the same page: it’s time to make a scene.

Wheeling around, you draw your blaster from its holster. “You _bastard_ ,” you spit, pointing it straight at the Mandalorian. “How long have you been tracking me?” 

Din and the Imp turn to face you at the same time, the utter bafflement on the Imp’s face mirrored in Din’s body language.

“Since the city? You followed me all the way out here?” you scoff, keeping your blaster trained at his chest. Every eye in the room is on you. “And for _smuggling_ , too. I’m not hurting anybody. Why’s the Guild got a bounty on my head, huh? Don’t you have better things to do?”

You spare a look around you, and you catch baffled looks on everyone’s faces—except Nomi. She manages a straight face, but her eyes glitter when you catch them. Her harebrained plan is working; you just have to sell it. 

You turn back to the Mandalorian, taking a step closer. His hand flickers down to his blaster again. _Come on, shiny,_ you think, _whip it out. Make it believable._

Doubling down, you lace your voice with sarcasm. “I thought Mandalorians were the best in the galaxy,” you sneer. “What kind of two-bit Mando are you that they’ve sent you after a lousy part-time smuggler?” 

The Imp looks between you and the Mandalorian. He looks like he can’t decide if he should arrest you himself or just turn around and walk out. 

Finally, Mando jolts into action. He bites out a curse and draws his blaster, advancing towards you. Kriff, he really _is_ intimidating like that. You’d hate to be a real quarry. You make a half-hearted attempt to escape, but when Din’s on top of his game, he’s _fast_. He has you disarmed and your hands twisted behind you in binders— _where did those even come from?_ —before you can come up with another clever line. 

Glancing at the doorway, you see the Imp’s expression shift from confusion to mild amusement. As the Mandalorian finishes binding you and searches you for hidden weapons— _don’t get distracted_ , you have to remind yourself, with Din’s hands on the inside of your thigh—the Imp drops the little grin and turns to Tam.

“Do you know these people?”

It’s Nomi who answers. She shakes her head, clutching her child tight to her chest. “No,” she sobs, eyes welling with tears. _Damn, she’s good_. “She j-just burst in, said she needed to hide, threatened us—” 

“Hey—” you protest. 

Din claps a gloved hand over your mouth. “Quiet, smuggler,” he growls, _way_ too close to your ear. 

_Oh, stars, don’t you dare think too hard about that._

“And then he shows up,” Nomi continues, gesturing at the Mandalorian, “and asks why we’ve been hiding a wanted captive, but we didn’t know, and w-we’re just villagers, we’re not d-dangerous, and my s-son—”

The Imp winces and holds up a hand, stopping her tearful explanation before she can finish. “That’s enough.” He grimaces and looks at the Mandalorian. “You’d do well to be more careful in the future. Letting a wanted criminal endanger civilians? You might not be paid to keep the peace, but I’m not paid to clean up your messes either.”

Din grunts. Clearly, he’s not enjoying a lecture from an ineffectual Imperial officer.

Said ineffectual Imp keeps talking. “You’re awfully conspicuous, too, you know that? It was easy to track your ship here. It looks suspicious, arriving in the capital and flying out to the provinces so quickly.”

_That’s_ what this is about? Relief washes over you. Din’s hand over your mouth is actually a blessing, or you might laugh aloud. They’re tracking him just because they thought his travel itinerary was weird? This guy is a glorified Imperial traffic cop? They’re not after Tam at all; they don’t even know who he is. And, even better, this guy seems to have no clue who Din is either. It would be good to keep it that way.

“Thanks,” Din grunts, pushing you forward with his free hand on the small of your back. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to get this _bounty_ ,” his hand tightens around your wrist, “into carbonite.”

The Imp nods approvingly. You try not to roll your eyes. Twisting your head around, you catch Nomi’s eyes. _Treeline_ , you mouth. _Nightfall_. 

She gives you a barely-perceptible nod. 

Din’s hand presses harder into your back. “Move it, kid.” 

As he hauls you out the front door, the Imp, amazingly, tips his hat at Nomi and the others. “Sorry for the trouble, ma’am.” 

As he pulls the door shut behind you, he can’t help himself. He throws one last comment at the Mandalorian, just because he can. “You head right back to the city, you hear me? You don’t want more trouble.”

Din just grunts his assent and continues manhandling you away from the house. As you stumble across the clearing, starting to lose feeling in your hands, a thought occurs to you: _that really could’ve gone worse._

☆

It’s quiet, mercifully so, on the _Crest_. It’s nearly a whole day after the incident in the village. Your wrists are still a bit sore from the binders and you feel dead on your feet, despite the fact that this is the first moment you’ve actually had to breathe in the past twenty-four hours. You’re zoned out of the conversation, as much as you’d like to be paying attention to the joyful family reunion unfolding in front of you.

The Mandalorian flew straight back to the city, just as the Imp instructed—but only after night fell. Nomi led her family to the treeline, just as you told her to, and they snuck aboard the ship without the Imp catching even the slightest wind of your plot. Not that he was likely to; he was the least effective Imp you’ve ever met, and you’ve met Stormtroopers.

From there, it was a quick trip back to the city, a quick trip to the city to gather Sora and Jessa and the child, and a hasty departure from the planet.

Your destination? Some backwater planet you’ve never heard of. According to Nomi, it’s the base of another resistance cell. You’re amazed to hear her description of the network they’re part of: towns and villages across the galaxy, completely innocuous from the outside but linked to each other through secret channels and information pathways. She explained it all to you on the trip back to the city. Normal people like Nomi and Tam whose families have been victimized by the Empire, allying together, collecting intel and stockpiling it to use against the Empire when the time is right. You listen in amazement as she tells you about Tam collecting information on his Imperial clients, passing it back to her, and her passing it along to their allies on other planets. 

It’s amazing. Really, really amazing. Their bravery astounds you. And the _love_ amongst them astounds you, too; the look on Sora’s face when she walks through the gate of the ship and sees her husband, tired but alive, waiting for her. And Jessa, suddenly breaking into a sprint on her unsteady legs, running forward to wrap her little arms around her father’s calves. 

Stars, it’s enough to make a hard-hearted drifter like you cry—if only you had the energy to.

The family is gathered in the hold of the _Crest_ , sitting on crates and talking in low voices. The Mandalorian is probably in the cockpit, avoiding the fuss. He’s withdrawn again; you can’t help but wonder why. Not wanting to interrupt the family, you scoop the kid—who is relentlessly trying to get Jessa’s attention—up into your arms and wander out of the room. 

The kid wants a snack, so you rummage around and find him some dried fruit. Then he wants to go back and play with his new friend, and Sora waves him in, so you let him toddle back into the hold and watch for a moment as he offers some fruit to Jessa and her parents. 

Pride blossoms in your chest at that, tired as you are. While the kid plays under supervision of other adults— _babysitters_ , what a luxury—you sink down onto a crate and let your eyes slip shut. 

☆

Barely twelve hours have passed, and just like that, this mission is over. It’s not far from Lothal to the resistance cell, and everyone on board is happy to see this trip over quickly. The Mandalorian lands the _Crest_ on the planet for just as long as he needs to and the family hurries off, straight into the welcome arms of their fellow resistance fighters.

Thank-yous are exchanged. Some tears are shed. It’s hasty, though: the rushed goodbyes of people who just met each other and will likely never see each other again.

The moment that gets you, that twists a knife into your heart, is the moment you’re about to walk up the gangplank and join the Mandalorian at the gate. Sora pulls you in for one final hug and whispers _thank you_ in your ear—for probably the twelfth time. You’re heading up the gangplank with the kid in tow when you hear a tiny shout from behind you.

Jessa follows the kid halfway up to the plank, tugging on his brown sleeve. Then, with a smile on her face, she opens her arms and swallows him up in a big hug. He squeaks loudly, his little green feet flailing as she lifts him clean off the ground. The noise of protestation turns into a happy little burble quickly. 

Sora calls out to her daughter and Jessa releases the kid. She gives him one last wave as you and the kid join the Mandalorian in the hold of the ship. As you look down at the family—Sora, Tam, Jessa, Nomi, her husband, her son, all of them safe and sound—a rush of emotions wells up inside you. Relief, sadness, pride, longing—too many than you have energy to process, that’s for sure.

The gate slides shut. The Mandalorian disappears into the cockpit, and you pick the child up off the floor. You’re still worried about Din, but you put the thought of mind for now. The child needs to get ready for bed; that’s your most immediate concern.

His pod is floating around the hold aimlessly, and, as soon as you place him in it, he promptly passes out. Apparently, playing with another child wears him out just as much as using his powers. You poke his nose affectionately and shut the pod, securing it for flight. When he wakes up, you’ll have to find something special for his snack. He was, according to Sora’s reports, a surprisingly pleasant house guest, and you’re proud of him for learning how to share. 

It’s quiet in the depths of the ship, your footsteps loud as you weave your way up to the cockpit. Just as you expected, the Mandalorian is there. He’s sitting in the captain’s seat, unmoving, so still he could be asleep. But his helmet turns, just slightly, at the sound of your footsteps.

You sink into the co-pilot’s seat to his right. Outside the viewport, stars wheel around in the dark sky. Exhaustion lingers in every inch of your body; as happy as you are with the results of your impromptu mission, you’re glad it’s over. The last few days have tried you mentally, physically, emotionally—basically every way you can think of. You have no idea how the Mandalorian hunts like this on a regular basis. 

Din barely registers your presence. Slowly, you push yourself out of your chair. When you’re close enough to stand behind his seat, you drape your arms over the headrest, your palms coming to rest on his breastplate. 

“Hey,” you murmur. One hand slides down his arm, squeezing just above his elbow, right below his armor. 

You don’t need to say anything else. He turns his head to rest his armored face on your arm, exhaustion evident in the gesture. The two of you stay like that for long moments that stretch into minutes, just leaning into each other, staring out into space. 

There’s a question stuck in your throat that you don’t want to ask, but it comes out anyway.

“Are we okay?”

He turns, suddenly, visor tilting up to face you. “What?”

You look aside. You don’t like the way he said that. It makes you feel needy for having asked. You start to stumble through an explanation, something like, _you’ve been quiet_ and _I was worried_ and _you’ve barely said anything to me_ , but he takes pity on you and cuts your nervous ramble off. He wraps one gloved hand around your arm and squeezes.

“Yeah,” he says, his voice low, “we’re okay.”

Coming from Din, that might as well be a confession of undying love.

“Okay.” You smile down at him. “Next question. Are _you_ okay?”

That’s a more difficult question to answer. Is he _ever_ okay? The lone wolf bounty hunter, raised in a cult, alone except for his green son that speaks in babbles and moves things with his mind. Killing and kidnapping people for a living. _Are you okay_ is hardly a fair question to spring on him.

He sighs and his head falls back against the chair. It’s a long moment before he speaks, the silence of space punctuated only by the low hum of the _Crest_ in flight. Din looks out the viewport. You follow suit. 

“If you hadn’t stopped me,” he says, finally, “I would have brought him in.”

“Yeah.” You tilt your head and tap your fingers on his armor mindlessly. “That’s your job.”

“It’s my job, but it wouldn’t have been right.” 

_Ah_. 

You’re getting a sense of where this is going: it’s guilt, not anger or resentment, that’s kept Din so quiet for the last few days. As much as you hate to admit it, he’s right. If you hadn’t shoved your way into his mission, he would’ve found Tam eventually and turned him over to the Guild. Warm or cold. Just like he always says. 

Now you see why Din tries to keep you and the kid away from his hunts and his quarries. Unlike reuniting families and helping freedom fighters, his work isn’t always righteous. It’s messy and complicated and bloody, but that’s just his life. He’s never known it any other way. 

With a flash of guilt, you realize that you’re probably making it worse for him. You shove your nose in places you don’t belong and force Din to make choices he’s never had to make.

“But you didn’t,” you tell him. “You could’ve brought him in, but you didn’t.”

“I would’ve,” he protests.

“But you didn’t.”

You wish you had something more to say. You know that _but you didn’t_ is a weak defense. Din isn’t a cold-blooded murderer, though; this is just what he does. It’s what he was raised to do. _Bounty hunter, remember?_ That’s what he told you at Sora’s. You know what he is; you knew that when you told him you’d stay. 

The beskar of his helmet is cool against your mouth as you press your lips to the top of his head. 

“You’re a good man, Din,” you murmur. “And I’ll keep telling you that until you stop believing otherwise.”

He tilts his head up to face you, starlight reflecting off his visor. In that moment, the familiar ache wells up in your chest: you want to lift his helmet off and look him in the eyes. You want to see him in the low light of the stars and kiss him so he knows that you see him, _really_ see him, and still choose to be here. With him. _All_ of him, not just the nice parts. 

But you can’t, so you just smile at him instead. You like to think he might be smiling back. 

And then, because you can’t help yourself, your smile turns into a sly grin. “I don’t know about you, but I’m filthy. ‘Fresher?” 

☆

Din hits the lights as soon as you get to the bathroom. You don’t even have a chance to take off your clothes or turn on the shower before you’re plunged into darkness. You try to get your bearings, but all you hear is the telltale clang of metal on the floor that says that Din’s helmet has hit the deck. The warm press of his lips against your cheek confirms it.

“Fuck,” he mutters, and you laugh as he reaches for you blindly. When his hand finds your cheek—after a good amount of fumbling—he pulls you in for another kiss, this one square on your mouth. He pushes you against the closed door, his hungry mouth chasing your lips, you breaking the kiss to laugh breathlessly at his eagerness. 

Clearly, you weren’t the only one affected by your days without touching each other. 

Then he slips an armored thigh between your legs and you stop laughing quickly. Your mouth falls open on a gasp and he takes the opportunity to kiss you deeper, licking into your mouth like he’s starving for you. You just wrap one arm around his shoulders, bury your other hand in his hair, and hold on.

You’re so turned on that you’re aching by the time he finally breaks away to breathe. Never mind the fact that you were both asleep on your feet not half an hour ago; the promise of being alone together, after being surrounded by people for so long, is _electrifying_. 

“‘Fresher,” you instruct him, catching your breath. “Clothes off. Then ‘fresher.” 

He snorts out a laugh, loud in the small space without the helmet in the way, and you hear the clank of beskar hitting the floor and the soft sound of his shirt and pants following. How is he so fast? You rush to catch up, stripping off your layers as quickly as you can. He’s still fiddling with his buckle when you push past him towards the shower.

Too bad there’s armor all over the floor. Your toe collides with something in the dark—maybe a pauldron, maybe a vambrace, who knows—and you lose your balance. You flail about, trying to grab onto something and avoid hitting the floor face-first, before a warm weight catches you around the waist. 

Din draws you into his chest—his _naked_ chest, you realize, sending sparks down your spine—and spreads his hand out over your back.

“Careful, sweet girl,” he murmurs. “We haven’t even started yet.”

☆

The walls of the ‘fresher are cold but Din’s mouth is so _hot_. He barely let you clean yourself, just giving you enough time for a cursory wash and a little blind exploration of his body, before he shoved you back against the wall and knelt down in front of you. The spray of the water hits his back with a wet slap and he shoves your ankles apart, making room for his broad shoulders between your legs. 

He murmurs something that gets lost in the sound of the water and grabs your thigh with one strong hand, dragging it up to rest on his shoulder. When he turns his head, you feel the sharp nip of his teeth as he bites your thigh. You cry out, and it turns into an embarrassing noise not unlike a whimper as he soothes over the bite with his tongue. 

He bites at your thigh and licks you again, over and over, leaving marks all over your skin that you’ll surely see for days after this. He makes noises as he does so, hums of appreciation as your hands find his hair, desperately seeking purchase in his wet curls. Without even realizing it, you start to rock your hips, chasing the ghost sensation of something to satisfy the need growing inside you. His mouth lingering so close but still so far from where you want it makes you feel like a string about to snap. 

Din kisses your hip, then, as if sensing your impatience and deciding to draw it out even more. He laughs and you feel it rumble in his chest.

“You’ve waited long enough, sweet girl.” His voice is barely audible among the water falling, but the low rasp of it sends thrills through you all the same. “I want to taste you.”

And he does. No preamble, no more teasing, no more pet names in that low voice—just his mouth on you, his tongue parting your folds, chasing the taste of you at the source. Your legs shake but he’s too strong to let you fall. With just your thigh over his shoulder and his hands on your hips, he has you pinned, nowhere to go and nothing to do but take the pleasure he gives you, over and over and over. 

You’re rambling before you know it, garbled half-formed phrases that fall from your lips like water from the ‘fresher. 

“ _Yes_. Oh, _stars_ , Din...just like that. Oh, fuck, _just like that_. _Fuck._ ” You cut yourself off with a needy whine as he sneaks a hand between your legs, pressing one finger into your tight heat. His fingers are so fucking _thick;_ just one is enough to make you moan, especially after days without him inside you. The stretch as he fills you is exactly what you've needed. The desire you’ve buried to focus on the mission comes roaring back stronger than ever. 

“Fuck, you’re so— _fuck_ , Din, you feel so good, you make me feel so f-fucking _good…”_ You trail off as he adds another finger, groaning against you at the way you stutter for him. He works his fingers inside you slowly, taking a break from licking at you just long enough to speak.

“Keep talking, _cyar'ika_.” He ducks back down to resume wrecking you, and you blink, blearily aware that he just said something that didn’t sound like Basic, but not nearly composed enough to comprehend it. 

So you just obey.

He keeps working you with his hands and his tongue and you keep talking, gasping out praises for him, _you feel so good_ and _fuck I feel so full_ and _f-fuck I’m so close, right there, right there_ spilling from your mouth without even thinking about it. 

At the last one, he fucking _growls_ against you. “That’s it. Come for me,” he murmurs, before crooking his fingers against your walls and taking your clit in his mouth and _sucking_. It’s too much; you shatter for him, sobbing out his name, your back bowing forward, your leg tensing over his shoulder. He moans his appreciation as your slick drips onto his face and his hand and down his wrist, perfectly content to drown here, whether it’s in the ‘fresher or in you. 

“So good,” you slur, your hands running mindlessly through his hair, down his back, “you’re so fucking _good_ , Din.” 

Suddenly he’s standing up, shifting your thigh off his shoulder, pressing you against the wall. He’s so _tall_ like this; he bends down to kiss you and you have to tilt your chin up and stand up on your toes to grant him access. You taste yourself in his mouth; it’s filthy and messy and hot and you can’t get enough. You wish you could see him like this, his pupils blown wide and his face wet with you. It’s good he’s holding you up against the wall. If he weren’t, you’d simply melt to the floor and take him with you.

His voice is a low rasp between you, hot as fire. “Say it again, _cyar’ika_.” 

There’s that word again. What is he saying? And say _what_ again?

“Say what?”

“What you said before,” he murmurs, nosing at your neck. He presses further into your body and you feel him hard against your stomach. Realization comes slowly, piecing together at a glacial pace in your fuck-drunk brain. 

“You’re good, Din,” you tell him, your throat raw from overuse. Your hands find his hair again as he kisses your neck. “You’re so good to me.” 

He groans his appreciation and rocks his hips against you, his cock trapped between your bodies. He’s _so hard_ as he grinds against your stomach, desperate for something only you can give. 

“Keep talking.” His voice is _fucked_ , ragged and hungry. “ _Please._ ” He holds you tight to his body, hands on your hips, helping you move against him with a single-minded focus.

“You make me feel so— _ah_ —fucking _good_ ,” you gasp, losing your train of thought as he licks at your neck. It’s heaven when he gets like this, messy and needy and desperate for more. “Always fuck—fucking _careful_ , fucking _thoughtful_ , filling me up so fucking _well_ and taking care of me and making me come and calling me sweet girl like I’m fucking _perfect…_ ”

“You are,” he slurs. His praise hits you like lightning and you have half a mind to turn around and let him fuck you right now, but you suspect he’s too close to last long enough for that. “You’re fucking perfect, sweet girl.”

“Din,” you gasp, and you finally reach down between you to wrap your hand around his length. “Listen to me.” You tighten your grip and twist your hand and he thrusts blindly into your fist with a choked groan.

You might be glassy-eyed and fucked-out, but you’re serious. “You’re good,” you murmur, and listen as his breath goes ragged and uneven. 

“You take care of me,” your lips find his neck and kiss him over his pulse, “and you make me feel safe and precious and _wanted_ ,” you loosen your grip to let him fuck your hand, “and you’re a _good man_.” 

After that, he’s a mess; thrusting into your fist, bent down to rest his forehead in the crook of your neck, breath coming hot and humid against your skin. Your free hand wraps around him, feeling the muscles of his lower back tense as he rocks against you. Maker, it’s fucking _addicting_ , making him come apart like this, listening to him fall apart at the seams. He’s big and broad as he cages you in, even without the armor, but he’s so vulnerable for you. All because you’re telling him things that are true, thoughts you have about him constantly but bite back for fear of saying too much. 

So you tell him all of it here, half-hidden by the sound of the falling water, meaning every fucking word of it. You stay right where you are, right where he needs you. You commit it to memory, every sensation: his skin wet and warm under your hands, the length of his body pressed so tight to yours as he desperately chases release. You memorize every gasp and groan; you _revel_ in them. And you keep murmuring praise to him while he ruts against you mindlessly.

His movements get messier and his breath gets harsher. You tighten your hand on him and kiss him, a messy, imprecise, needy sort of kiss. 

“That’s it.” You don’t have to speak above a whisper for him to hear. “Be good for me, Din. I know you can. Come for me. _Please_.”

It’s _please_ that finally breaks him. He presses his forehead to your shoulder and groans, coming hard all over your hand and your stomach. Your name sounds like a prayer on his tongue when he gasps it out. You hold him through it, feeling his body tense suddenly and then slowly relax until he’s practically draped on you. Honestly, you think to yourself, you could stay like this forever—as long as the hot water doesn’t run out. 

When his brain comes back online, he presses a lazy kiss to your temple. Then he shifts, and, as if noticing the mess he made of the both of you for the first time, laughs.

“Maybe…” he murmurs, leaning in to kiss you again, “...maybe we should actually get clean now.”

“You think?” 

**Author's Note:**

> thanks to [middleearth2asgard](https://archiveofourown.org/users/middleearth2asgard/) for the request that inspired this chapter!
> 
> find me on [tumblr](https://letterfromvienna.tumblr.com/) xoxo


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